Farishta Page 23

  “Most State Department officers are assigned to U.S. PRTs, but I really don’t mind being with the Brits. They’re great guys, and there’s a camp about fifteen miles from us with a unit of Texas National Guard soldiers who are training the Afghans. They treat me like family whenever I go out there for meetings.”

  “Texans,” he harrumphed. “Too bad it wasn’t a New Mexico unit.” Dad paused to chew and swallow another mouthful of rice. The mention of Texas had reminded him of his favorite subject. “The Lobos are going to crush Texas Tech this fall, don’t you think, Bill.”

  “Not unless UNM finds a new quarterback before the season starts,” Bill said with real concern.

  The subject had changed, and I knew we would not be talking about Afghanistan anymore this evening. But I didn’t mind. Listening to Dad and Bill blather on about football was strangely comforting, despite the fact that I had not the slightest interest in the sport. Even the conversation between Dad’s wife and Bill’s wife about a TV show I’d never heard of made me feel oddly at home.

  Bill offered to do the dishes that night and suggested I take the dogs for a last walk. In the star-spangled blue dark of a balmy New Mexico summer evening, I strolled down our long dirt driveway with Dad’s two border collies bounding ahead of me.

  As the moon rose over the Sandias, casting the same long silvery shadows that crept every night over the ragged peaks of the Hindu Kush south of Mazār, I was overwhelmed by an intense and inexplicable desire to be back in Afghanistan. I missed the sights, sounds, and smells of that distant land, but I also missed the feeling of purpose and camaraderie that comes from being thrust into a dangerous situation with a group of dedicated people. And, yes, if I thought about it long enough, I missed my conversations with Mark.

  As I followed the dogs toward the main road, I wondered what these feelings meant for my return. How could that country I’d been so sure would destroy me have cast such a spell over me? And why was I so anxious to get back to a place where there were people who might actually want to kill me and where I encountered professional and personal frustrations on a daily basis?

  Halfway down to the highway, the dogs almost tripped me as they scooted underfoot chasing a rabbit into a clump of chaparral. An approaching truck backfired once, then louder the second time as its headlights flashed by our gate on the unlit road.

  I froze after the second explosion. My pulse went into overdrive. My palms and forehead grew clammy with sweat. The familiar wide-open spaces of my youth suddenly terrified me. I braced for another blast and irrationally reassured myself that it was just the Estonians conducting one of their demolitions.

  Crouching in the dirt, my hands covering my face, I waited for the panic attack to subside. The dogs, sensing my fear, crowded around me, whining softly and pressing their cool noses against my neck.

  After seven months of living behind the guarded walls and razor wire of the PRT, and leaving that confined space only when accompanied by armed soldiers or hidden under my burka, I felt suddenly naked, vulnerable, and terrified on this narrow dirt road I had traveled a thousand times in my youth.

  The dogs helped, but it was the memory of Mike’s shouted instructions from first-aid class that pulled me out of what I vowed would be the last panic attack of my life.

  “Morgan, check the shadows. Look around and tell me exactly what you see. Every detail!”

  The intense rush of adrenaline had ampified my senses, making it easy to scan my surroundings and describe to myself the sand verbena, black brush, and desert holly that grew in thick clumps to the western horizon. The dogs circled me until I stood up. When they were satisfied that I was okay, they lowered their noses to the ground and resumed their search for rabbits and field mice. My breathing became more regular. I whistled for them to follow me and walked back to the house. I would discuss this incident with no one.

  Four days later, as the embassy plane circled for a landing at the empty airfield in Mazār-i-Sharīf, I was thrilled to see Fuzzy and Jenkins lounging against the Beast on the shimmering hot runway. They welcomed me with hugs. Although I knew my presence here was temporary—that these young soldiers and I would be leaving Afghanistan in less than six months—I felt at that moment as I climbed into the backseat of the Beast far more like I was coming home than I had in New Mexico.

  We drove slowly into town and around the Blue Mosque, with the hot dusty summer air blowing through the Beast’s open windows. Fuzzy scanned the crowds as usual while Jenkins updated me on the comings and goings at the PRT.

  “Are you guys hungry?” I asked. They had missed lunch waiting for my plane.

  “I’m starving,” replied Jenkins. “We’ll get some leftovers when we get back to camp.”

  “Let me buy you guys lunch in town,” I said. “Turn left up here, Jenkins, and we’ll make a stop at the open market where they sell food.”

  “Are you sure this is a good idea? ” asked Fuzzy with a worried frown.

  “Trust me, Fuz.”

  “Stop here, Jenkins,” I said, jumping out of the vehicle and waiting for Fuzzy. He hoisted his rifle over his shoulder and followed me reluctantly to the smoking grill of a brochette seller, where I bought half a kilo of roasted lamb kabobs. At nearby stalls, I purchased three rounds of fresh-baked and still warm naan, three liters of Coca-Cola, and a sweet, ripe Mazār melon. Fuzzy helped me carry them back to the Beast.

  “Dig in, fellows,” I said. “You’ll love it.”

  I was silently disappointed to learn that Mark had been sent south to Helmand for several weeks, but the familiar faces of the other soldiers and the terps, who greeted me warmly as I hauled my suitcase up to my room, wrapped me in a blanket of familiarity as comforting as that first cup of tea I made for myself when I entered the main PRT building.

  I remained tied to my desk until an invitation arrived a few days later from one of the MOT commanders to accompany him and his men on a ten-day patrol into a remote corner of Sar-e Pol Province.

  FORTY-FOUR

  August 12, 2005 ✦ SAR-E POL PROVINCE

  A late afternoon breeze sweeping down the canyon rustled the tamarisk bushes next to the stream where I had knelt to wash my hair. It was day six of our patrol through the most remote mountain districts of Sar-e Pol.

  We had stopped to make camp for the evening, and I was taking advantage of this opportunity to wash my hands, feet, face, and hair with running water. I leaned over, dipped my head into the stream, and was rinsing shampoo from my hair and eyes when I heard splashing and shouting.

  “Angela, stay down and don’t move!” It was Captain Tim Baker, the commanding officer of our three-vehicle patrol. The splashing was now accompanied by barking. I froze into a crouched position, and turned my head just enough to see a gigantic earless dog, his teeth bared, splashing over the rocks in the stream and coming fast in my direction. I took a deep breath, recalled the promise I’d made to myself in New Mexico, and stayed still.

  Behind the approaching dog, I could see three bearded, turbaned Kuchi nomads carrying large staffs. They were trailed by six camels loaded down with supplies and three women wearing indigo gowns, their arms, ears, and noses jangling with gold jewelry. Small children chased one another around the camels. None of them seemed at all concerned about the huge dog that was about to attack me.

  Glancing over my shoulder again, I could see Fuzzy standing near our campsite. His rifle was trained on the dog, which he was about to shoot, when a sharp whistle from one of the nomads brought the animal to a sudden halt. The dog was less than three meters away from me, and the thick ruff of its matted brindle coat was raised in anger. It bared its teeth, swung its earless head, the size and shape of a bear’s, in my direction and let loose a final low growl before trotting back to the herd and resuming its job of guarding the sheep.

  Fuzzy lowered his weapon and went back to helping the others set up their tents and communications equipment in the shade of the massive orange-streaked slab of granite that loomed over ou
r campsite.

  “All clear, Angela. Back to your shampooing,” shouted Baker, his laughing voice echoing off the steep canyon walls.

  As the caravan lumbered by on the opposite side of the stream, I sat on a flat rock, dangled my toes in the water, and greeted the women in Dari while I dried my hair. They smiled and waved back, but their men stared at me in silence—as though I were an alien species—neither male nor female, or perhaps a bit of both. They did lift their long wooden staffs to wave at the soldiers, who returned their greeting.

  This journey had taken us into valleys—Hazara, Pashtun, Uzbek, and Tajik—that hadn’t been visited by NATO soldiers for more than a year. In each village where we stopped, Captain Baker and his second-in-command would go off with their interpreter to meet with the district chief or local warlord.

  Now that I no longer had to hide my language skills, I used these opportunities to speak with the women. As soon as our convoy rolled into the center of a village, I would cover my hair with a head scarf, put on a knee-length tunic, and stand in the road next to our vehicles. Within minutes, curious women would crack their heavy wooden doors just wide enough to peek out. As soon as they spotted a female with the soldiers, they would poke their fingers out and invite me to enter their walled compounds, where they could remain hidden from prying male eyes.

  It was always a challenge explaining to them who I was and why I was traveling alone with so many men. The cultural chasm between us was almost too vast to bridge, but they still seemed anxious to share with me stories about their children’s schooling, local opium trafficking, and the real power brokers in their districts.

  The biggest concern for these women was that their husbands or their sons might have to go into battle again—against other warlords, the Taliban, the Russians, or a new foreign invader. They did not yet include us in that last category.

  It didn’t really matter to them who the enemy was. Many of them didn’t even know the name of Afghanistan’s current president. All they wanted was to have their husbands at home, cultivating their crops and tending their animals. They were terrified that if there was renewed fighting in the north, more land mines would be scattered across their fields, the irrigation ditches would be bombed from the air, and their men wouldn’t be able to produce enough food to last through the winter. They wanted to be left in peace to raise and educate their children. They wanted access to medical care and, of course, they all wanted cell phones.

  Whenever we stopped in a village over the lunch hour, I’d pull out one of my solar ovens and gather a few women inside a compound to show them how I could boil water with sunshine.

  On the seventh day of our patrol, we pulled into a small dusty village, dominated by a hulking mud-walled fortress on a cliff just above town.

  “This is the territory of Khan Hussein Cherik,” said Zalmay, the young PRT interpreter who had accompanied us on this patrol. “That is the khan’s home,” he added, pointing with great solemnity up at the medieval walls and imposing guard towers of the massive mud structure.

  “He is a great friend of General Kabir. The khan’s granddaughter was the little girl who was almost killed by the suicide bomber in Andkhoy. The one you took to the hospital.” Zalmay’s eyes widened to indicate that Khan Cherik was clearly a powerful and important man and that I was very fortunate to be in his good graces.

  “I’d love to see how she’s doing, Tim,” I said to Captain Baker. It was hard to believe that I might actually know someone in this isolated corner of Afghanistan. It seemed that years rather than months had passed since that cold February afternoon in Andkhoy when I’d first seen the little girl with her father.

  “If she’s there, you should be able to see her this evening, Angela. We’ll be camping near the village, but we’re all invited to the fort for a meal later this afternoon with the khan and the male members of his family.”

  Dinner was a lavish affair. The khan’s son Farhad recounted to the assembled male diners the entire story of the bombing in Andkhoy, portraying me, much to my embarrassment, as a cross between Wonder Woman and Florence Nightingale.

  As we prepared to return to our camp, Farhad insisted that his wife and mother wanted me to spend the night with them in the women’s quarters. I shot a quick glance at Baker, who was looking extremely unhappy at this idea. Before he could stop me, I told Farhad that I would love to accept their invitation.

  “Please be careful. Call us if you need help for any reason, Angela,” Captain Baker told me as he pressed a radio into my hand before walking through the gate that was about to separate me from the rest of the MOT. Fuzzy turned around and shot me a final worried glance as the tall wooden doors were pulled shut and bolted by the khan’s men.

  “Honum, come with me, please,” said a servant who led me into a spacious room with arched windows that looked out over a long, irrigated valley. She reappeared, carrying a basin filled with warm water, a folded towel, and a simple blue robe. After I had bathed and put on the robe, a movement at the door caught my eye. It was the little Afghan Shirley Temple peeking shyly around the corner.

  When her mother and another woman, whom I presumed to be her grandmother, urged her to approach me, she began to walk in my direction, supported by a tiny crutch under her arm and limping as though she were still in pain.

  “Thank you for saving my daughter,” the child’s mother said. She began to weep and kiss my hands. The little girl grabbed her mother’s skirt and looked up at me with solemn eyes.

  “I was happy that I could help her. It was a terrible day.” I looked down at the little girl who was now standing in front of me. She was beautiful.

  “Why does she limp? ” I asked.

  “Part of the metal from the bomb is still in her leg. The doctor said she does not feel pain, but she will always walk this way. Her life comes at a cost. The wounds have left terrible scars. No man will ever want to marry my wonderful child. But my sons will protect her.”

  “What is your name, child? ” I asked.

  “Farishta,” she replied.

  “Farishta is my name, too!” I said. “We are both angels!”

  She laughed and pressed her small hands together. “Mama, we have the same name!”

  More female family members entered the room followed by their children. We slept early and rose at first light. After we were served tea and fresh warm bread, Grandmother, who had expressed serious concern about me traveling with the soldiers and wearing boots and trousers, stood and walked to my side.

  “You are a very bad woman to live with those foreign men, Farishta,” she said, slapping my hand gently, but with a twinkle in her eye. “It is even worse that you dress like them! At least your eyes should look like a woman’s eyes.” She extracted a silver vial of kohl from a pocket in her robe and waved it in the air.

  “This will make your eyes beautiful.” The other women nodded.

  Grandmother led me to the window where the light was best. She dipped a thin silver applicator into a saucer of water and then into the vial of dark kohl, tapping it to loosen the excess powder.

  “This will make a man lose himself when you look at him, but you must be careful not to look at any of those soldiers you are traveling with. They will not be able to control themselves.” The other women laughed hysterically.

  “Don’t you have a husband, Farishta?” asked little Farishta’s mother when the laughter stopped.

  “I lost my husband many years ago,” I replied.

  The women lowered their eyes and fell silent until Grandmother announced matter-of-factly that many women who lose their husbands are still able to find another one.

  “You are still young, Farishta,” she chided.

  “I’m not as young as you think, Grandmother,” I replied.

  When I told them my age, which was only twelve years younger than Grandmother, there was much astonishment and chattering among the other women until Grandmother called everyone’s attention again to the task at hand.

&nb
sp; “Do not be afraid, Farishta,” she laughed, holding a mirror close to my face. “Close one eye, then take the applicator between your fingers.”

  I drew the silver tip once above and once below each eye just where the lashes sprouted, leaving a smoky line across the inside of my upper and lower lids.

  “Let us celebrate Farishta’s new eyes with more tea and sweet biscuits,” Grandmother said, clapping her hands for the servant girl to bring us more refreshments.

  A loud crash in the courtyard and the sound of screaming frightened the returning servant, who dropped the tea tray and ran out of the room. Little Farishta’s older brother, Aziz, ran into the women’s quarters, his face white and his lips quivering.

  “Mother, soldiers have broken through the outside door.” He was almost in tears. “I am the only man here, and I think the soldiers are going to take me away. Some of them have gone to the roof where Grandfather is drying our harvest of marijuana.”

  “You grow marijuana?” I shouldn’t have been surprised at this. Eight-foot cannabis plants grew in profusion alongside the roads and irrigation ditches of Balkh and every other province in the north.

  “All families in this district have produced hashish for generations, Farishta-jan,” said Grandmother, who seemed surprised at my ignorance. “It is our custom.”

  The door to the women’s quarters flew open, and an armed Afghan soldier pointed at Aziz, who cowered next to his mother. “The boy must come with me,” he ordered.

  There wasn’t time to radio Captain Baker and his men at the bottom of the hill, but I knew that Afghan soldiers in this part of the country did not conduct presence patrols without American advisors. I found it hard to believe that Colonel Tremain would authorize his men to allow their Afghan trainees to break into a family compound.

  I stood up and faced the soldier. “Take me to the American who is in charge of this training mission.”

  He was momentarily stunned that a woman would make such a demand, but when I didn’t blink or back away, he released the boy and walked out of the women’s quarters. I followed him through the partially smashed wooden gate. Fifteen Afghan soldiers stood outside the compound with their rifles drawn. Several yards away, I could see an American soldier watching us. His rifle was also pointed at the khan’s fortress.